


Easy

by withoutaplease



Series: Boyfriend Sam [4]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader is adjusting to her new life with Sam as a full-time hunter.  After enjoying a rare night of having the bunker to themselves, she and Sam accompany Dean on what’s supposed to be another routine hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Sam x Female Reader
> 
> Word Count: 3350
> 
> Warnings: Lots of fluff, lots of smut
> 
> Author’s note: I thought I was finished with this series, and then “Baby” happened and I needed somewhere to put all the feels. I hope you continue to enjoy Boyfriend Sam as much as I do.

               It’s 6:00am and you’ve had _maybe_ three good hours of sleep.  The alarm on your phone is going off and all you want to do is throw it across the room and go back to bed for another day or two.  You’re cranky and your muscles forget what it feels like not to ache.  You’ve been a full-time hunter for all of two weeks, and you’re already wondering if the gig comes with paid vacation.  You turn off the alarm and cover your head with your pillow.  You yell into it, colourfully.

               Just at that moment, Sam comes back to the bedroom you’ve been sharing with a steaming cup of fresh coffee.  He waits patiently for you to finish your tirade, then says a cautious, “Good morning,” and waves the mug in front of you like a white flag.  It smells good.  He’s freshly showered and his hair is still wet, and he smells good, too.  He flashes you a smile, and that’s all it takes to remind you why you took the job. 

               You smile sheepishly.  “Thank you,” you say, accepting the offering.

               “You gonna make it?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed as you work your way upright.

               “You bet,” you answer.  “Momentary lapse.”

               “Okay,” he says, leaning over to kiss your forehead. “We have to hit the road in an hour.”

               “I’ll be ready,” you say, smiling wanly and doing your best impression of a person who feels remotely like she’s ready to do anything at all.

               Sam isn’t fooled.  “You know,” he starts, not for the first time, “you don’t have to come along.  This is just recon.  Dean and I can handle it if you want to rest today.”

               It’s tempting, if it weren’t for two catches.  The first is that you’re determined to prove yourself capable and valuable as a member of the team, so when the time comes for the real fight, nobody thinks to leave you behind. The second is that any mission could be the one Sam doesn’t come back from, and you’ll be damned if you’re not right there with him to keep it from happening.

               _All in._

               “Honestly,” you assure him. “If I need to, I’ll nap in the car.  Just please tell me you left me some hot water.”

               Sam chuckles, acquiescing to the brave face he knows you’re putting on.  He kisses you again and rises to his feet.  “Only if you can beat Dean into the bathroom.”  He starts to leave the room, pausing in the doorway to ask, “How would you like your eggs?”

* * * * *

               Aside from research, reconnaissance, and a handful of what might generously be described as “scuffles,” the bulk of your hunting time has been spent training.  Today you’re in the shooting range for the third time this week, at Sam’s insistence, firing round after round at the target despite the fact that you haven’t missed once.  Emptying another clip, you sense him watching you.  You turn around and pull off your ear muffs.  Sure enough, he’s standing back behind you with a bottle of beer in each hand.

               “Does this mean lesson’s over?” you ask hopefully.

               He puts the bottles down. “Almost,” he says, walking up behind you and taking hold of your arms with hands still chilled from the bottles.  “One more round.”

               You shoot him an exasperated look, but standing there with his arms wrapped around you, your heart’s not truly in it.  “Humour me,” he says, before pressing his lips into the skin just below your ear. You shudder, sigh, and load another clip into the handgun.  You raise your arms to shoot, and he makes adjustments to your stance.  “Try holding your elbow like this,” he says, lifting your left arm.  “And plant your foot more like this,” he adds, nudging your leg out a little with his own foot. 

               “You’re kidding me right now,” you say with a laugh.  “I’m supposed to concentrate with you all over me?”

               He grins.  “You’ll need to know how to compensate for distractions,” he says playfully. 

               You sigh, and turn your head to face the target.  The instant you start to squeeze the trigger, Sam blows softly in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that makes you gasp.  The shot goes wild.  He laughs.

               “You realize this is a live, loaded weapon,” you admonish, turning around in his arms. 

               “I had you,” he says, grinning, pulling you in close. “I was never in any danger.”

               “Says you,” you say, smirking.  “Can we be done now, please? I think I have a handle on target practice.”

               He takes the gun out of your hand and sets it aside, then kisses you on the forehead.  “You’re good,” he says.  “I never said you weren’t good.”

               “Then why am I practicing so much?” you ask.

               The humour leaves his face for a moment, leaving only candour.  “You’re good, but I need you to be great, okay?  Great’s going to be what keeps you safe.”

               You have a hard time arguing with that.  “Okay,” you say, rising up on your tiptoes to kiss him.  He receives the kiss with open, giving lips, and his hands clasp either side of your waist.  The kiss deepens and you sigh into it as his tongue slips along your lower lip.  You’re just winding a hand up into his hair when he pulls away.

               “Come on,” he says.  “Beer’s getting warm.” He starts to step away from you; you hold on tighter.

               “There’s plenty of cold beer,” you say, grinning impishly.

               “True,” he says, “but the dinner I am trying to surprise you with is getting cold.”

               “Seriously?” you ask, excited. “I’m starving!” You hop up on your toes to give him one more peck, then you’re off and running for the kitchen.  He watches you go, smiling to himself, before he grabs the beer and follows you.

* * * * *

               He’s not a bad cook, all told, and after a good meal and a few drinks, you’re feeling more relaxed than you have since you arrived.  You and Sam have the bunker to yourselves for once, and, as you sit across the table from one another laughing and picking at the remains of the meal, you manage to forget about hunting and just enjoy his company.  You allow yourself a second to fantasize about a life that could be like this all the time. 

               He catches you mid-reverie.  “Hey,” he interrupts quietly. “Where’d you go?”

               You sigh softly.  “Just a daydream,” you say, dismissively. “A nice one.”  You smile reassuringly.  “Thank you for this, it was lovely.”

               “You’re welcome,” he says, sincerely. “You’ve been working hard.  I’m sorry it hasn’t been . . .” he pauses, searching for the word.

               “Easier?” you offer.

               He chuckles. “I was going to say ‘fun,’ but ‘easier’ works, too.”

               You take his hand across the table.  “Sam,” you start, “when you agree to join one of the two most notorious hunters in the country on his crusade, there’s no reasonable expectation of ‘easy.’ And, not for nothing, I’ve had all kinds of fun since I met you.”

               He grins and bites his lip.  His eyes are shining when he meets your gaze.  “Me too,” he says.  He pauses again.  “You’re doing okay, though? Seriously.”

               “I’m tired,” you admit.  “I don’t know how you run on zero sleep. And I kind of miss my mom. And I guess . . . I’m a little afraid of what might happen.”

               He nods. “Sounds about right,” he says, running his thumb lightly over the top of your hand.  “Nobody’s guaranteed tomorrow, though, right?”

               You chuckle.  “Don’t quote me to me,” you say, trying to keep the mood light, getting up from the table and starting to clear the dishes.  He stands and catches you as you go to walk past him, taking the plates out of your hands and putting them back on the table.  He puts his hands on your shoulders and looks you in the eye.

               “You’re okay, though?” he asks again, insistently.

               “I’m better than okay,” you reply. “This is where I want to be.  I’ve got you; I can handle the rest.”

               He moves his hands down your arms, settling them on your waist, and looks you up and down.  He inhales sharply, and nods again.  “Okay,” he says, smiling softly.  He takes half a step, closing the space between you. It’s almost automatic now the way your hips press you against him, the way one of his hands slides around to splay across your back, the way the other rakes up into your hair, the way your arms circle around his waist.  Your lips come together like magnets, and he kisses you like it’s a thirst he’ll die trying to quench.  His lips are warm and wet and plush, and it’s hard to think when his tongue is slipping against yours, but what you do manage to think is that it _is_ easy, that this part is so, so easy.

               He breaks away from the kiss with one long pull on your lower lip, then he tilts your head back by the hair, gentle but firm.  He trails his tongue beneath your jaw, pausing to drag his lips along the pulse point on your throat, feeling it starting to race.  Your head lolls to the side as he continues on to your ear, tip of his tongue circling it, his breath tickling it like it did when your shot went wild.  Only this time he doesn’t stop, he keeps licking and nipping and whispery-moaning in your ear until your legs don’t want to hold you up any longer and you begin to go wild, too.

               He walks you two steps back so you can lean against the counter, then his hands are winding up under your t-shirt and pulling it over your head.  His head drops to your shoulder, freckled already with marks his teeth have left, and sets to work on new ones.  You fumble the buttons on his flannel open with fingers working on muscle memory alone, your mind all wound up in the nipping of his teeth and the roaming of his hands and the swelling at the fly of his jeans.  You arch against him, and he moans into your collarbone, and it’s like a dance the two of you have been rehearsing, more skilled with every performance.  He shrugs his flannel off his shoulders and pulls his t-shirt off over his head.

               He dips in for another kiss, and while your tongues are tangled, he picks you up under the arms and sets down on top of the counter.  “This looks familiar,” he murmurs as he settles in against you, erection pressing tantalizingly against the seam of your jeans.  You smile, briefly remembering the first time Sam seduced you, just like this on your own kitchen counter, miles and miles away.  Then he’s unhooking your bra and slipping it off your arms and catching both nipples between the fingers of each hand.  He rolls them hard enough that you jump, grinding forcefully against him and crying out.  He grins.

               “Yup,” he says, still gripping your nipples, watching you squirm, “you made the same sound the last time, too.” He keeps you there, on the edge of pleasure and pain, for a few moments longer, until you’re panting and whimpering and clenching your fists in his hair.  He finally lets go, leaving your nipples swollen and throbbing, and reaches to unbutton your jeans.  As you lift your hips and shimmy out of them, he gets down on his knees and grins up at you. 

               “There’s nobody else here this time,” he says, taking his time in slipping your panties off your hips and down your legs, “you can make as much noise as you want.” You shudder as he lifts your legs onto his shoulders and looks up at you again, his mouth inches away from your soaking pussy. The smile on his face is devilish when he asks you, “Comfy?” and you nod enthusiastically.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I let you go to sleep?” he says, cocking an eyebrow.  You exhale in a hiss, grabbing another fistful of his hair and fighting the urge to just roll your hips and grind yourself right onto his face.

               “Don’t you dare,” you say, crossing your calves around the back of his neck.  He grins up at you one more time, and then his lips are buried within your folds, his tongue sliding up inside you.  It’s one of your favourite parts of the dance, this one, the part where he hums with pleasure at the taste of you and the vibrations send your nerves singing. Then he’s licking long and slow, back and forth to the tip of your clit, and he’s learned how hard he needs to go to get you _almost_ there, balanced right on the precipice, like a tightrope, or the edge of a cliff.  It’s no time at all before you reach that summit, and he likes to hold you there, to watch you writhe and watch the sweat bead up on your brow, to feel your fingers clutch his hair for dear life and your thighs tremble against his cheeks, to hear your moans grow louder and more plaintive, echoing this time in the hallways with no need to stifle them.

               “Sam,” you plead breathlessly, then he’s steadying you with an arm around each thigh and letting you teeter there just a little bit longer, suspended, before nudging you over with a flick of the tongue in just the right place. Your head falls back and you moan in rhythm with the waves crashing through you, surrendering, and it’s easy, so easy to fall when he’s right there to catch you.

               He doesn’t stop when you start to come down, only slowing to long, languid laps that make the nerves in your sensitive bud jump with each pass, hitching your breaths as you get your wind back. He starts up again in earnest once you’ve relaxed, coiling you back up, and this time he doesn’t play with you. You spring hard and brutal, cursing hoarsely, quick on the heels of the last release. You pull him back with the hand that hasn’t left his hair and lean your head all the way back against the wall, chest heaving. He lets your legs down from his shoulders and takes to his feet, wiping your slick from his chin with the back of his hand. He steps between your rubbery legs and pulls you back upright, letting you rest against his chest, surrounded by his arms. “Thank you,” you sigh in a tiny voice.

               “My pleasure,” he replies, stroking your back and kissing the top of your head. As you lean on him, purring blissfully, you notice he’s still very much erect against your thigh, and you wind your hand down to palm him through his jeans, rubbing slow and steady. His breath deepens, and his fingertips start to dig in at the points they meet your skin. You lift your head to look at him, and his eyes are squeezed closed, his lips slightly parted. You move in to kiss them, and it starts off softly, then in the span of a breath he’s on you like a whirlwind, tongue swirling, hands gripping your head, hips thrusting against your hand. “You ready for more?” he breathes between kisses, and in response, you toggle open the front of his jeans and reach inside to grip his cock, rock-hard and straining.  He growls into your mouth.

               “Good girl,” he whispers, reaching into his pocket for a condom before shoving his pants and boxer-briefs down, cock springing free.  You stroke it a few times, your thumb picking up the wetness at the tip and circling lightly around the head, until he moans and moves your hand away.  He slips the condom on and quickly grabs you by the hips, hitching you up to the edge of the counter and lining himself up against your opening. You take a deep breath and exhale in a moan as he enters you, filling you slowly, deliciously, until he’s hilted, and you’re arched against him, and it still doesn’t feel like it’s quite close enough, but it’s as close as you’ll ever be.  He holds there for a moment, kissing you affectionately with scarlet, swollen lips, and then his hips move and yours move and you know, you both know without thinking just where to tilt, where to press, where to squeeze to make it so good for both of you.  He keeps a grip on your hips for leverage as he pumps in and out of you, and you’re already so sensitive, so engorged, that every bit of friction sets your nerves on fire.  He picks up his pace when you start to tense up around him, and when he moves one hand from your hip to press his thumb between your bodies, against your clit, the pressure sends you reeling, screaming, contractions wracking your whole abdomen and leaving you totally, blissfully spent. Sam follows you over the brink, groaning, jaw dropped open as his hips stutter and quake with his orgasm.  When the brunt of it has passed, he leans forward, forehead resting on yours and arms slung over your shoulders as the two of you catch your breath and ride out the aftershocks.

               When he’s helped you down from the counter onto unsteady legs, you survey the kitchen, your clothes strewn everywhere along with dirty dishes, empty bottles, and leftover food.  “Any way this mess can wait ‘til morning?” you ask, retrieving your panties from the back of a chair. 

               “We leave at dawn for that vampire’s nest in Missouri, remember?” he says, zipping up his jeans and making a cursory attempt at piling up the dishes on the table.  You give him your best puppy-dog look, and between your batting eyelashes and very much still-bare breasts before him, he relents.  “How about _I_ clean up the kitchen?” he asks, with good-natured sarcasm.

               “Thanks, babe,” you say, flashing him a giddy smile.  He smiles back, and sweeps you into his arms for one more kiss.

               “Come on,” he says, “I’ll come tuck you in.”

               This night, you sleep like a baby.

* * * * *

               Even after a record six hours’ sleep, and another few spent sprawled out and dozing in the backseat of the Impala, you’re still half in a daze from your evening with Sam when Dean parks the car. The three of you split up to stake out the old warehouse where a small family of vampires has supposedly been abducting captives to feed on – another “scuffle” in the making.  It’s broad daylight, and you see no sign of trouble as you circle the perimeter.  Each step you take burns the muscles in your hips and your groin, the best kind of soreness, the kind that constantly reminds you of Sam and the skill of his labours between your legs.  You smile to yourself as you absently beat at the brush with your machete.

               You emerge from the edge of the woods about fifty feet away from the back door of the warehouse; Sam and Dean are already there, waiting on either side with weapons drawn.  Sam sees you and gives you the thumbs-up, and you return the gesture.  _All clear_. 

               You take a couple of steps toward them, ready to storm the warehouse together, and then something stops you in your tracks.  It isn’t much; a change in the air, a skitter of gravel behind you, the slight, freshly-lit-match scent of sulphur.  You see the expressions on Sam and Dean’s faces change to something like alarm, and you start to turn your head, grip tightening on your machete.

               It isn’t quick enough, and the lights go out before you have a chance to see what hits you.


End file.
